


Mind Ruin

by EatingPeaches



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Amnesia, Angst, Canon Compliant, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Investigations, John is kind of an idiot, Murder Mystery, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective John, Psychological Torture, Recovery, Sherlock Whump, Tags to be added, Trauma, i feel so sorry for Sherl, there's an actual case in here as well, why do I write stuff like this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-01-10 03:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12290028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatingPeaches/pseuds/EatingPeaches
Summary: Sherlock has been missing for more than three months when John finally receives a text telling him he's back home.Sherlock seems to be fine at first - until it becomes obvious he can't remember what had happened to him, where he had been, or even going missing in the first place.Even though Sherlock just wants to move on with his life, they soon notice he is unable to solve any cases and appears to have lost the unique deduction abilities that make him who he is - or once was.Sherlock has to try to rebuilt his mind if he is going to find out what happened to him, who did it and why.





	1. Chapter 1

_„I‘m home.“_

Those were two words that meant everything. John stared at his cellphone. The message had come from Sherlock’s number. Sherlock, who had been gone –no, missing- for three months, two weeks and four days. John’s hand was starting to shake; he had stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the bustle of London’s busy pavements. People were bumping into him from behind, muttering little insults like “Idiot” or “Tosser” under their breath, just loud enough for him to hear. John barely noticed. His breathing had stopped. Sherlock disappearing, there was almost nothing else John had been thinking about in the last few months. His flatmate and best friend had gone out to help Scotland Yard with some random murder case, which they were too stupid to solve on their own, and had simply never returned. That day John had been sick with a particularly nasty case of the flu and hadn’t felt like tagging along, much to Sherlock’s disapproval. When Sherlock hadn’t checked back with John, he at first and simply assumed that the man was childishly mad at him for not coming along and had just gone off to take care of some case-related business and fitting his usual behavior had merely neglected to tell him. So the first days, heck even weeks, of Sherlock being gone, John hadn’t really been worried. But then the weeks had turned into months and the feeling that something was wrong, that Sherlock wouldn’t just leave him in such uncertainty -especially not after John’s reaction to the last time he had pulled something like this- grew stronger and stronger. John had been wrecking his brain, trying to come up with scenarios that would lead to his friend not being in contact for months on end without him being in a horrible situation, or worse - dead. Scotland Yard hadn’t been of any help either. Investigating Sherlock’s disappearance seemed to have been too difficult a task while missing their best detective. So John had been in a constant state of anxiety over the last weeks, utterly unable to concentrate at work. He had even taken a few vacation days in fear of messing up treatments.

It was actually kind of funny. Sherlock had disappeared just a few weeks after John had decided to move back in with him, since he hadn’t been capable of bearing living alone after Mary’s death, thus leaving John all on his own once again. Except for Rosie of course, who to be honest, didn’t really mean company but rather more work.  And now: This text message. Could his best friend really be back? Or was someone merely toying with John? Trying to get his hopes up, only to have him come home to an empty flat just like in the days before? John took a deep, shuddering breath. He had actually been on his way to work, but of course there was no question about what to do next: He immediately made his way back down into the crammed hallways of London’s subway, hastily rushing towards the train that would bring him home and – hopefully - to Sherlock.

Baker Street Station was even worse than the one John had come from, being so close to Madame Tussauds, which was always jam-packed, but got even worse during the summer. Tourists be damned. John fought his way up the stairs, out into the scorching summer heat, which only got worse living in a city, surrounded only by asphalt, people and cars. John pushed through a seemingly disoriented crowd of tourists and started running down the street to his and Sherlock’s flat. He _needed_ this to be true, needed his friend to actually be there. The way from the station to 221B was only about 200 meters, but John still felt it was too long. He couldn’t bear not knowing any moment longer, his heart was short of bursting right through his chest. John unlocked their front door with shaky hands, then hastily made his way up the stairs to their shared flat. He almost busted open the door and stumbled into the living room. “Sherlock!” The panicked shout had left Johns mouth even before he had had time to scan the area.

With an expression of mild surprise on his face the other man turned his head towards him. “Oh, hello John. Shouldn’t you be at work right now? And Rosie? Dropped off at the daycare I assume?”

John froze in his spot. There he was. Sherlock Holmes, standing in the middle of the room, a cup of freshly brewed tea in one of his hands, not a hair out of place, not a single bruise to be seen. John didn’t manage to get out a word at first. Sherlock looked at him with his usual analytical gaze, apparently deciding that John had had enough time to think of an answer.

“You do know that missing work is-“

“WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?” John bursted out, unable to contain his emotions.

“I don’t understand the question. I was simply working a case. You knew that.”

Anger rose in John’s body, quickly replacing the initial relief he had felt. Not this. Not again. Sherlock had done it once more. He had left him alone, miserable, wrecking his psyche, only to do some random, bullshit thing, when a simple text message or email would have been enough to relieve John from the torture of thinking his best friend had vanished once and for all. Heat pulsed through Johns veins, spreading even to his fingertips. He clenched his jaw and fists. Tears were collecting in the corners of his eyes. He felt so stupid. He had let that man manipulate him again. He had let himself be fooled once more, thinking Sherlock Holmes actually had some decency in him, that he had actually changed throughout the ordeals they had faced together. Moriarty, Euros, _Mary_ … -John desperately wanted to hit him.

“I thought you were gone,” he hissed through his teeth instead, head bowed down in anger and shame.

Sherlock looked at him, confused, then scoffed. “Come on John, it wasn’t that long. Surely you can manage without me for a short time? I’m not your mother after all.”

That was it. That did it. John could no longer contain his anger. Immediately after Sherlock had made that comment something inside of him, the part that had previously been keeping his angry impulses under control, went silent and another, more furious, screaming voice took its place. With a rage-induced shout John lunged forward and with all of his strength threw his balled up fist into the other man’s face. The impact was hard and painful, even for John. A few drops of blood flew through the air and the teacup shattered noisily as Sherlock fell to the floor, grunting on impact and instinctively raising his arms to shield himself from further harm. John raised his arm once more, intent on causing more pain, but just managing to stop himself when he noticed Sherlock violently shivering all over his body and seemingly being close to tears.

Taken aback by that intense reaction, John decided to only shout at the cowered man instead. “Why do you keep doing this to me? You disappear for months without a single word and then turn up like nothing’s the matter? I was sick with worry! I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep because I thought YOU MIGHT BE DEAD!” Tears had started to roll down John’s face during the last few words. “I thought that-“ His voice broke. “- that I had lost you too!” This was all too much for John, he couldn’t do this anymore. “Say something!” He barked at Sherlock.

But the other man was not responding, instead staring at the floor with a dazed and confused expression on his face. “I…” Sherlock drew a shuddered breath. “I don’t feel very well. I think I need to lie down…”

John felt himself getting more irritated by the second. “No, you don’t need to lie down! You need to explain to me, where exactly you were the last three and half months and why in the world you didn’t tell me a goddamned thing about it!”

“Three months… three and a half months,” Sherlock silently whispered to himself.

“And then when you finally return, after I was worried sick for all this time, you only send me a text saying _I’m home_ and nothing else? And then you don’t even apologize for making the last few months of my life hell?” John felt like he could kill the other man right now. The other’s silence only served to make things worse. “You don’t even care what I’m saying, do you?”

Then finally Sherlock looked up at him again, seemingly more confused than sorry. “John… I- I didn’t send you any text. My phone, I… I must have lost it. It’s not with me anymore.” Sherlock paused for a few moments, quickly looking around the room as if he was searching for something. “Did you say I was gone for over three months?”

“Yes you were,” John replied, massively annoyed. “Probably didn’t even cross your mind I could get worried by that, eh?”

“No… No it’s not that. I… I-“ Sherlock moved his hand to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. “I think I’m going to be sick John…”

John’s mood was slowly starting to shift from anger to worry again, as Sherlock only looked around himself in confusion, apparently unable to make any sense of the situation he was in. John slowly lowered himself onto the floor next to his friend, shooting him a concerned look.

Sherlock didn’t meet his gaze, he only stared straight ahead, brows furrowed. “John… I just realized- I don’t even remember how I got here… And the time… three months… you’re right, it must have been three months. When I left to work the case it was March. It’s too hot outside for it to be March… I don’t understand… oh god.”

John didn’t know what to say to that. Fear was creeping up his spine. What if Sherlock had not simply neglected him again? What if something _did_ happen? This was worse. Sherlock being gone for over three months and not remembering a thing was definitely worse than him just having been massively inconsiderate of John once again. He moved his hand up Sherlock’s back and rested it on his friends shoulder. The embrace was somewhat awkward, but he wanted to show his support, make Sherlock realize he was no longer angry, that he could talk to him. “You don’t remember the last months? You don’t know where you’ve been?” he asked softly.

Sherlock grimaced, obviously trying to concentrate on something, but not succeeding. “I remember leaving in order to have a look at a murder victim. It was March. You didn’t want to come-“

“- _Couldn’t_ come,” John interrupted.

“… couldn’t come with, because you were sick. I left the flat and… Nothing. I don’t even know if I ever got to look at the body. Then I’m back here again and you are shouting at me… I... I don’t know! It’s like there’s nothing but fog and wool in my head- I-“ Sherlock was getting visibly upset by now, grabbing at his own hair in frustration. His nose had started bleeding, John noticed, a sharp bolt of guilt shooting through him.

He didn’t have any time to dwell on it though, as Sherlock suddenly jumped up from the floor, running straight to their kitchen. Seconds later John could hear him violently retching, followed by something wet hitting their sink. Quickly he made his way to the kitchen, where he found his friend, grasping at their upper cupboards for support, slumped over the sink, which was filled with sour smelling, greyish-tinted vomit. Sherlock seemed terribly exhausted all of the sudden and was taking shallow, erratic breaths. “Grey…” he mumbled. “That’s supposed to tell me something… why is it grey?” He squeezed his eyes shut, seemingly trying to concentrate, but unable to come up with anything.

John slowly walked up behind him, hesitantly placing his left arm on his friend’s back, now truly worried about his wellbeing. Sherlock didn’t look at him though, still fixated on the former contents of his stomach.

“You definitely need to lie down. I need to have a look at you – as a doctor.” John shot him a worried look.

“Yes, of course, you’re right.” Sherlock groaned, letting go of the cupboards and taking a few swaying steps towards his bedroom.

“Do you think you can walk without help? Should I-“

Just as John was asking this, Sherlock stumbled forwards, crashing into the floor, only barely catching himself on his hands. Immediately John rushed to his side. “I’m fine.” Came a flat response before John had even asked the question. John cursed himself for being so stupid that he hadn’t offered his friend assistance _before_ he had started his walk. He really should have seen this coming. What kind of a doctor was he? John then noticed that Sherlock’s head was slowly sinking towards his chest while his eyes had already fallen shut. “Sherlock!?” John exclaimed, trying to get the other man to stay awake, to focus on him again, but it was already too late. There came no response and Sherlock simply dropped onto his left side, finally losing consciousness. John immediately felt panic rising inside him, but he acted fast nonetheless. He was a trained professional after all. He knew what to do when someone fell unconscious, even if that person was his best friend, who he was terrified of losing the same way he had lost- no, not now! John first checked if Sherlock was still breathing –He was. He then carefully rolled him onto his back before pulling over the nearest chair from the kitchen and positioning Sherlock’s legs on it. He routinely opened his friend’s belt, but immediately froze when he started to open the dress shirt. Sherlock’s pale chest was adorned with screamingly bright colors: Dozens of purple bruises and red cuts marred his flesh, the biggest slash looking to be more than ten inches long. With shaking hands John continued unbuttoning the shirt, only to find more of the same type of injuries. John didn’t have the time to categorize every wound on Sherlock’s front torso right now, but he could see that there even were some small to medium sized burn marks on his friend’s skin. But they all were at least two weeks old, as if whoever had done this had suddenly lost interest and had stopped torturing Sherlock around that time. John was shaking now. Anger washed over him, rushing through his veins like molten metal. Whoever had done this had to pay. He would find them and slowly rip their spine out for hurting his friend like that… trying to take away the last damn thing John still held dear in this godforsaken world.

 After a few agonizing moments, just as John had started contemplating calling an ambulance, Sherlock’s eyes finally started to open slowly. He looked around himself dazed and confused, obviously unsure of where he was.

John reassuringly put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Let’s get you into bed,” he whispered softly.

Sherlock didn’t respond. He simply let John prop him back up again, leaning heavily on his friend’s smaller frame. He didn’t seem to be aware of his surroundings and didn’t even react to the now openly displayed marks on his chest. John led the stumbling man into his room without saying a word, where Sherlock immediately collapsed unto the bed. John lifted up his legs and put the blanket over his trembling body. John stood above his friend for a few moments, still unsure of whether or not he needed a hospital. But he decided against it. He was a doctor himself after all, he had been to war and would be able to take care of this himself. No, he _wanted_ to take care of this himself. This was his friend, who had saved him countless of times and now he’d do the same for him. Sherlock would hate being in hospital anyway, probably would rip out his IVs and waltz straight out of there on his second day. No, this would do, this was probably better for both of them.

John kept watching his friend. His eyes were shut now, his chest steadily rising and falling in tune with his now calmed breathing. Sherlock had already fallen asleep. What the hell had happened to him in those three months? Dozens of sick, terrible possibilities were running through John’s head, each one worse than the last. Knots were forming in his stomach, shooting a sharp pain through his insides. Who had inflicted those wounds on Sherlock and why? And most importantly: Why couldn’t Sherlock remember any of it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! It's been ages since I've written something, let alone posted on here! But I'm trying to get back into it and regain my love for making up stories.
> 
> I hope you liked it & stick around for the next chapters!
> 
> Comments would be highly appreciated! #no shame in begging
> 
> ~bye~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos! It really helps me to stay motivated.
> 
> \- writing is hard

_All he felt was red, hot, stinging pain. It was all around him, inside him, consuming every inch, every cell of his body. Nothing existed around him, only the abyss – he was nowhere. In this moment, his entire world, his surroundings and his own body, past present and future, were composed only of agony. He wanted to scream, beg for mercy, make this stop, but he couldn’t even move a muscle. A sharp sensation was working its way up his spine, carving fresh anguish into his flesh, making him forget who he was, how to speak, that he was real. He could hear voices now, terrible taunting, mocking voices. “FREAK!” they screamed. And then he was screaming too. His skin was burning now, cracking up under the heat. The smell of his own burnt flesh was making him dizzy. He heard the sizzling of his own cooking flesh. Then there was a hand in his hair, fingernails lazily dragging across his scalp, almost lovingly. A white face was floating in front of him, grinning, but not making any sounds. Then the pain returned, even worse than before. Iron and copper were flowing out of his mouth, red and hot, scorching his lips. Then: a sudden harsh sting in his neck. He fell into blackness, the suffocating nothingness closing in all around him. This was his death._

Sherlock was sharply jerked away by the sensation of falling. He instinctively grabbed at the sheets, for a moment thinking that he was actually about to die. He breathed a sigh of relief as the fogginess of sleep slowly left his head and was replaced with the reassuring awareness of being home. It was beginning to get dark outside, which meant that he had slept for at least ten hours. Sherlock had absolutely no idea what that ridiculous dream had meant. Then, as he noticed something, an icy shiver ran all throughout him, making the hair on his arms and at the back of his neck stand up. Since he had been mostly undressed, safe for his underwear, he now had a full view of his own body, and more importantly, his skin. Sherlock immediately started to feel nauseous as he took in the sea of bruised, cut, burnt and scarred flesh, which apparently belonged to him. His chest, abdomen and upper legs were covered in frighteningly colorful markings. Sherlock now felt like crying, not because his body had been demolished, but because he felt like he had never seen any of these wounds before. It felt as though they had appeared overnight, which obviously wasn’t the case. Who the hell had given them to him? Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them. How could he not remember? What in the world was going on with him? One moment he had been leaving his flat to work a case, and then he was right back at home all of the sudden, being yelled at by John, having missed more than three months of his life, with his body looking the way it did. This had to all be some sort of horrifying dream and he only wanted it to be over.

Unexpectedly Sherlock felt a warm tear swiftly running down his cheek. –No, he wouldn’t cry, this was stupid. Crying didn’t do anything! – Couldn’t change anything. Whatever had happened with him had already happened. So he sat in his bed, choking back tears, fighting with his own emotions and secretly hoping to wake up once more, even though it was foolish, only so he wouldn’t have to feel this way any longer.

Sherlock was then ripped from his thoughts by a cautious knock at the door. He was grateful. Now he could occupy himself with something else. John slowly entered the room.

“You’re awake.” He seemed relieved. “That- that’s good.” John sat down on a chair that had been newly positioned at the foot of Sherlock’s bed. Had he stayed in there while Sherlock had been sleeping? John gave him a look that was probably meant to be reassuring, but made him appear more concerned that anything else. They both were silent for a few moments, before John took a deep breath and spoke up once more.

“Do you remember what happened before you fell asleep?”

“Yes, I remember you punched me in the face,” Sherlock replied, trying to somehow shift the conversation from what he knew had to be coming next.

John rubbed his eyes. Tired maybe? Or annoyed at Sherlock’s remark? “No, that’s not what I meant to talk about… but… Look, I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have done that. You know how I sometimes…” John didn’t finish his sentence. “Anyway – I had a look at you while you were asleep.” He switched to a more neutral, professional sounding tone of voice. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t critically injured, as well as getting a rough overview of your general condition. I think you were kept on quite a lot of drugs during the last months, which is probably why your vomit came out grey and why you didn’t wake up during my examination. I found an abundance of needle marks on both of your arms, wrists, on your neck and also between your toes. They range in age quite a bit. Some of them seem to be from several months or weeks ago, while others can’t be older than just a few days.” Sherlock could tell by his demeanor and the slight shake in his voice that John was mortified by what he was telling him, but was trying to hide it, probably not to further upset Sherlock. “And…” He paused. “As you can probably tell yourself, there are also quite a few other external wounds.” John gestured towards Sherlock’s body, desperately trying to keep up the act of the unfazed army doctor. “There are several lacerations and bruises on your skin, as well as a few burn marks. However, all of them are at least two weeks old and seem to have been given rudimentary medical treatment long before you got here. Some of them have even been stitched up. None of them should result in any further complications, however there will be a lot of scarring. On the bright sight, I don’t think you suffered any critical injuries. You do seem to have lost a bit of body mass, but I wouldn’t call you malnourished or even underweight. Still, we should keep an eye on that.” John took a deep breath. “Sherlock… I should mention, that whoever did this, they-“ He swallowed hard, all too obviously fighting back his disgust. “ -they actually… branded you… The mark is at the back of your neck. But it isn’t that bid and your coat and scarf should in fact cover it quite well, so it shouldn’t be too…”

Sherlock wasn’t listening to what John was saying anymore. Instead he raised his hand and lightly fingered the back of his neck. Shock went through every cell in his body when he felt the welts of burned and scarred flesh just below where his hair was starting to grow. This wasn’t like the other wounds. The risings in his skin, the curves the scars took, they were methodical, following a pattern - forming an emblem. As his fingers slowly slid over his punished skin, an undefinable feeling rose from his insides, clutching his heart, clawing at his very being. There was a screeching, deafening tone in his ears, as something from deep inside his mind was trying to crawl its way back to the surface. “No. No, no, no…” Sherlock mumbled and hastily withdrew his hand, just as unwilling as unable to comprehend what ever had just happened inside of his brain.

John had stopped talking and was now simply giving him a pitying look. There was nothing his flatmate could’ve said to make this any less horrible though. Someone had _branded_ him. The other cuts and bruises would stay with him for the rest of his life as well, but this wound – it was different. It was someone’s symbol and it marked him as that someone’s property.

“Sherlock, I –“

“Just don’t,” Sherlock interrupted John, looking down at his hands. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

John went silent. Sherlock felt as though he was going to throw up again.

A few minutes passed by with neither of them speaking up. What could really be said? Sherlock was occupied with his own thoughts anyway, a storm of disgust, shame and anger crashing through his brain.

“And you still don’t remember a thing, now that the drugs have worn off?” John carefully asked after a few minutes had passed.

“No,” Sherlock whispered.

“Can you maybe… I don’t know – deduce something from your injuries or the time of day you returned, something like that?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. His wounds were telling him nothing. He blamed the state of exhaustion he was in, as well as the drugs that appeared to have been or maybe still were in his system.

John sighed. “I called Mycroft while you were asleep,” he suddenly said without looking directly at Sherlock. “He was out of state, but he said he’d fly here immediately. He should be here in two or three hours.”

Sherlock stared at John, wide-eyed. He didn’t know whether he should be angry or not. He used to not like having his brother around very much, but that had sort of changed a bit lately. Still… Their relationship was complicated after all. So Sherlock decided that he was in fact somewhat mad with John about this. “And you didn’t think you should’ve asked me before you did that?” He hissed at John, sounding a little angrier than what he had anticipated.

“Come on Sherlock, he’s your brother. He’s been just as worried as me. And he’s Mycroft... He’d have known you were back by tomorrow anyway. I thought the sooner he got here the better… I really think we could use his help with this. I mean… we have no idea who did this to you, or even _what_ was done to you. And we don’t know what to do next. And Mycroft, he has the resources of the entire British government at his disposal.”

Sherlock scoffed, but didn’t answer. He knew John was right, but that didn’t mean he liked the fact that he had gone over Sherlock’s head when making that decision. And he also didn’t like being put on the defensive so shortly after suffering a drug induced breakdown and god-knows-what before that.

“Well, I better get dressed then. Don’t want my dear brother to think I was slacking off.” Sherlock abruptly jumped out of bed, ignoring the slight dizziness this brought on. “You should probably also give a call to Greg.” He shot John a mildly angered glance. His friend however seemed to be too occupied by the full view of all the wounds draped across the Sherlock’s skin, he was now getting, to even notice the dissatisfied look on his face. Did his body really look that terrible? For some reason Sherlock felt shame washing over him, rather uncomfortable with how John was staring at the marks covering his flesh. He hastily crossed his arms to cover up his chest.

“Don’t stare at me like that,” he grunted.

“I wasn’t staring…”John replied, the way in which he quickly moved his head to the left confirming however, that he had in fact been staring. The situation got more uncomfortable by the second, so Sherlock hurriedly turned on his heels and left, making his way into the bathroom.

He let out a shuddering breath, as he shut the door behind him, making sure to lock it. Not because he had been made to feel uncomfortable by John or anything of that nature, but because he simply was too overwhelmed by absolutely everything. He just wanted to be alone, not have anyone able to intrude and to be able to breathe again. He turned around to face the bathroom-mirror and immediately thought about how glad he was about it not being big enough to give him a full-body view. He could only see down to his belly button, but that already was more than enough. His body looked terribly wrecked. Sherlock found himself choking back tears for the second time this evening. An intense fear, worse than any fear he’d ever felt before, was working its way from his heart into his limbs to his head. He had no idea why, but he felt as though he was dying. So he just stood there, silently watching his own reflection, while his mind was completely blank. After some time a thick, tar-like liquid started running from his scalp down his face. He couldn’t feel anything on his skin, but he could see it in his reflection. The substance slowly made its way down to the bridge of his nose, then parting and running down at either side of it. It reached his lips, then his chin and lastly started to drip down, onto his bare chest. When the black drops touched his chest, Sherlock could finally feel them. They were scorching hot, burning his skin on impact. The agonizing pain was quickly spreading from his chest all the way to his fingertips, up his scalp and down to his toes. Nevertheless Sherlock still just stood there, not moving a muscle, only enduring.

This was when he suddenly heard something knocking at the door, calling his name.

“Sherlock? Scherlock! Hey! Is everything all right in there? I haven’t heard any noises since you went in!” A pause. Somehow, Sherlock felt unable to speak up, still trapped in some sort of weird trance. “Hey! I’m starting to get worried out here! Sherlock, please!” The other man was now trying to get in, rattling the door knob.

“I- It’s fine John – I’m fine,” Sherlock finally managed to respond.

“Oh. Okay,” came a somewhat confused reply from outside the door. “I was just thinking… No. You know, don’t mind me. Take your time.” Sherlock could hear footsteps moving away from the door. When he looked back at the mirror, the black liquid was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft was sitting in the back of one of the many black, unassuming cars he had at his disposal. His back was positioned upright, his whole body displaying just the right amount of tension so that he would look as though he was currently occupying an inconspicuously neutral state of mind. A more perceptive onlooker however would notice the way he was holding his umbrella in a grip just a little more firm than usual for him, which Mycroft knew was an indication of him being in an at least somewhat strained emotional state. He couldn’t actually pinpoint the concrete emotion –was it anger, fear, sadness, pain?- nor did he think it necessary. However he did think his driver was spending an above average amount of time on the 16.0 miles that lay between the Heathrow Airport and his little brother’s oddly decorated flat. Mycroft sighed in annoyance and decided to look out of the car window, as there was nothing to be done about the 4% lower than average speed he was moving at. He watched as the biggest raindrops swiftly slid along the smooth glass, crushing the smaller ones and absorbing their mass to increase their own speed. John Watson had sounded immensely distraught when he had called him, choking back words and interjecting his own sentences at a frequent rate. What had been worse of course, and what Mycroft suspected to be the reason for the mishandling his umbrella was currently enduring, were the contents of John’s broken sentences. Little brother Sherlock not knowing what had happened during the last months and quite obviously having been the subject of considerable abuse – that thought was making a swirling, stinging sensation appear in Mycroft’s stomach, which presence he did not like to admit to himself. He looked back at his driver’s head again.

“For god’s sake, can’t you go _any_ faster?,” he finally blurted out.

 

* * *

 

When John Watson finally opened the house door on Mycroft’s fourth ring, the older Holmes brother simply shot past him without giving him the disapproving glance he would have deserved for making him wait for so long. Mycroft just barely caught himself before busting open the door to his younger brother’s flat, taking a small moment to collect himself, putting back on the face of the calm, collected and somewhat aloof British government official. When he opened the door however, having the first chance to lay eyes on his sibling again, his mask was immediately dangerously close to slipping again. Sherlock was sitting in his favorite armchair and simply looked abhorrently awful. Not in an immediately obvious way – he had clearly lost weight -, but in a way that was immediately obvious to Mycroft. Sherlock’s body was positioned all wrong, his arms, his back and even head angled in slightly off ways that his brother usually didn’t sit in. His head was hanging a little too low, his back too straight, his arms too far away from his body – as if trying to keep them at a distance from himself. His shirt had been buttoned up in a haste, one of the lower buttons wasn’t in its appropriate hole. Sherlock’s hair was even more messy than usual. Though worst were his eyes. They were now looking at Mycroft, but they gave off a vacant and unfocused impression and weren’t quickly looking up and down his entire form in their usual analytical way. Mycroft kept staring at Sherlock. He really didn’t know what to say. It was almost as if he didn’t know the man.

“Brother,” Sherlock said in a somewhat demanding tone.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft could not believe that flat, empty voice supposedly belonged to his brother. Seeing him like this, it made the older Holmes feel something. This time he could even name the emotion: Shock. “I’m glad you’re back”, Mycroft said in a soft voice, still lingering in the middle of the room, a few feet away from his sibling.

“What do you want?” came back the dry reply. Sherlock wasn’t even looking at him anymore; he was staring off into somewhere else.

“Would you mind if I first sat down?” Mycroft responded, using a firmer and more demanding tone while somewhat regaining his composure. He didn’t wait for an answer, he simply walked across the room and sat down in the seat across from his brother, keeping his eyes intently focused on him. John had reentered the flat right now, and after a small struggle against himself at the door had decided to sit down with them. For a moment no one said anything. The silence was suffocatingly thick. Mycroft could hear a clock ticking away in some other room and small droplets of water falling down into the kitchen sink. For the first time in months he didn’t know what to say. This was actually something that could happen - Even though he did not like admitting it. Sherlock was apparently still following his tactic of blankly staring in a different direction and ignoring his brother the best he could. Dr. Watson awkwardly cleared his throat. Nonetheless it was Mycroft who spoke up first.

“We are going to find out who did this and what they did. I promise you that.”

Sherlock didn’t react at all, which was not what Mycroft had been expecting.

“Aren’t you glad? I have the resources of the British government at my fingertips. We are guaranteed to be successful.”

Still no reaction. Mycroft was starting to get irritated now. “My team of investigators could be here by sunrise.”

His younger brother suddenly shot him an uncompromising glare from the corner of his eyes. “I don’t care,” he spat through gritted teeth.

“What do you mean you don’t care?” Mycroft was so perplexed, he didn’t even know what to think. John was starting to awkwardly shift around in his chair.

With a sudden burst of energy Sherlock sprung up from his seat, furiously glaring down at his older brother. “I mean that I don’t care who did this, or what they did, or why. It is done. And there is nothing to _be done_! I can’t remember a thing! Where would even you start your damned investigation? I will not be bothered by this anymore! I am here now and that’s all! It’s _gone_!” With swift and forceful steps Sherlock walked away from his brother towards his bedroom, turning around one more time when he reached the door. “And I do not want your goons rummaging through my flat or questioning me – or John for that matter! I am not interested! You will leave immediately! Out!” And with that Sherlock swung his bedroom door shut.

Mycroft sighed in annoyance. Typical. Sherlock didn’t like to make things easy for him. Such a thick skull. He got up from the worn-out chair in frustration and turned his attention to John.

“Get him willing to cooperate. I do not want to force him.” And with that Mycroft left his brother’s flat. Waste of time.


End file.
